


Silence is Infinity

by Snowfilly1



Series: Make the Yuletide Gay 2020 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M, Make the Yuletide Gay, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Singing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27902167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: 'I used to sing when I made things. My stars. I'd sing to Her while I made them.'Aziraphale wonders why he never hears Crowley sing. Scars can be as much about what they take away as what they leave behind.For the 'caroling' prompt from On Our Own Side Zine's Make the Yuletide Gay advent.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Make the Yuletide Gay 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032006
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58
Collections: Make the Yuletide Gay 2020





	Silence is Infinity

**Author's Note:**

> A standalone fill for the 'Caroling' prompt. No holiday cheer here I'm afraid, just Crowley having lost something he loved. 
> 
> Title is lifted from an Emily Dickinson quatrain, 'Silence.'

'I've never heard you sing.' 

Crowley blinked, wriggling around under the quilt. It was too early in the morning to deal with anything more complicated than 'do you want a coffee?'

Aziraphale seemed to sense it, because he rested a hand on Crowley's shoulder and said softly 'it's alright, go back to sleep, dearest.'

Crowley draped himself over the angel a bit more and closed his eyes again. Drifted off to sleep with Aziraphale's humming in his ears. 

The words were still there when he woke up; when he showered for longer than he needed, listening to Aziraphale pottering in the kitchen, the clash of pans and cutlery. 

I've never heard you sing.

The words were still there a few days later as they drove out to Epping Forest; the Bentley serenading them with Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon. Crowley tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel as he often did. Aziraphale watched him.

And they're there a month later, when Crowley excused himself for an evening to go and listen to a pretty decent band in a pretty shitty pub. It's not Aziraphale's scene and while he knew the angel would come with him in a heartbeat, they're both happier like this. He'd left Aziraphale with a Seamus Heaney anthology ('Really, Crowley, if we're going to go and live in the countryside, don't you think I ought to read about it a bit first?') and some cocoa. Crowley was nursing a beer, being jostled by elbows on most sides as he watched the band play. 

They had a good drummer. Crowley found himself tapping a foot, keeping the beat. They played a few covers towards the end of the night and the crowd sung along. Crowley kept his mouth shut. 

If he got home earlier than expected, Aziraphale was too distracted by the Chinese he'd brought back with him to notice. 

'Did you have a good evening, dearest?' 

'Of course. They were very good.' It wasn't quite a lie. 'How was your poetry?'

'Very grim, actually. I hope the countryside isn't all like that.'

Crowley laughed, stole some prawns from Aziraphale's plate. Let the conversation drift so he didn't have to think about what Aziraphale had said. 

He mentioned it finally months later, sometime after they'd already hauled their belongings down to a cottage in the South Downs that was more than half formed of dreams and miracles, and he'd taken to leaving a radio playing for the plants in his garden. 

'Lots of people say singing is good for plants,' he said softly when Aziraphale came over to look at what would, one day, be a herb patch. 'So I'm trying with the radio.'

Aziraphale seemed to understand there was something else, because he paused and looked down at Crowley. 'What's wrong, dear?'

He tried to answer 'nothing.' Caught the look in Aziraphale's eyes and remembered their promise not to lie to each other. Settled for 'back in London, you said you never heard me sing.'

'It was only a thought, dearest. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just...I know you like all your music and I know you can play some instruments and it just occurred to me I'd never heard you sing. Did I say something wrong?'

Crowley huffed something that was close enough to a laugh. 'Course you didn't. I never told you. Anyway, I sung lullabies to Warlock a bit, just you were always off whispering sweet nothings to the roses.'

'After you'd traumatised them, you mean. Poor things just needed a bit of kindness.'

Crowley got up, paced the garden for a moment until he found a spot on the fence to lean against. He could see across the sweep of the downland, the gentle waves of grass fading into heather in the distance. Aziraphale came close; he could sense the angel a little behind him, a little to the side but not in sight. Close enough to protect; faraway enough not to crowd. 

What had he ever done to deserve this?

'You don't have to tell me.'

The waves murmured in the distance. They had a song all of their own, Crowley was learning. Different days, they'd be singing different verses. Soft and peaceful; storm roughened and angry. Today, it was a benediction. 

'I'd like to.'

Another slight shift in the air; Aziraphale coming a step closer. They'd both learnt that Crowley couldn't do conversations like this if he could see Aziraphale. 

'Angels sing to praise, right? Praise Her.' He knew Aziraphale heard both the capital letter and the twist of spite; both beyond his conscious control. 

'Yes. Carols of praise and joy and all that.'

Crowley was silent for a long while. The waves shifted into a chant, accompanied by the wind sighing across the hills. 

'I used to sing when I made things. My stars. I'd sing to Her while I made them.'

Aziraphale listened. Crowley could feel him listening. 

'Can't do it anymore. Why would I want to?'

Aziraphale heard the lie in that, he knew. It was a lie he kept telling himself; that it didn't matter if he couldn't do it if he didn't want to do it anyway.

'Too many memories?' Aziraphale asked, and Crowley jerked his head in an approximation of a nod. 

'Too many memories.'

The angel came and stood alongside him, not touching. Close enough that Crowley could touch if he wanted. Close enough to be safe. 

Crowley brushed his hand against Aziraphale's. Felt the warmth of him; as safe and welcoming as the sun in Eden. 

Aziraphale's fingers wrapped around his. 

No answers, no suggestions. Just the steadiness of his presence and the sadness that Crowley could feel radiating off of him; the fact that he shared Crowley's feelings at having singing taken away from him and that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Heaney deserves better than Aziraphale's assessment, but he is grim reading at times!


End file.
